The Final Silence (16 page)

Flanagan’s cheeks burned. She felt a swell of anger, pushed it down, forced a smile onto her lips. ‘I don’t think I’m wasting my time.’

Ida locked eyes with her. ‘Neither did I. But what do you think I’d give now for an hour with Rea? All the things I’d tell her if I knew what an hour was worth.’

Flanagan thought of Eli and Ruth, their small hands in hers. A sudden memory: Ruth clinging to her, arms wrapped around her neck, legs around her waist, the child’s skin hot with fever. The feel of her breath on Flanagan’s cheek.

And Eli, always managing to get dirty, his face, his clothes. Always falling off or over something. Always running, as if the world would get away from him if he didn’t chase it hard enough.

She inhaled, ready to speak, but the air caught in her throat. A quiver in her chest, and a certainty that tears would come.

Flanagan swallowed hard. Blinked.

Ida asked, ‘What’s wrong, pet?’

Flanagan shook her head. ‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

Heat in her eyes, in her throat.

Do. Not. Cry.

I am not this person, Flanagan thought. I am not this weak. I will hold myself together.

Even so, a tear escaped. Running down her cheek like a prisoner fleeing. She caught it with her palm, held her hand there, forced herself not to wipe, as if hiding the movement would conceal the emotion she had allowed to break free.

Ida asked, ‘Did I upset you?’

‘No, not at all.’

As Flanagan spoke, the image of her deathbed pulsed in her mind. Her children around it, watching their mother being eaten alive by her own body.

She closed her eyes, shook her head. Hard, as if to rattle the picture loose from her brain.

Ida moved to the couch, took Flanagan’s hand in hers.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again.

Flanagan opened her eyes, unsure whether to pull her hand away or keep hold of Ida’s.

A voice from the doorway, ‘What’s going on?’

Graham Carlisle, glaring as if he’d discovered them in some vile act.

Flanagan snapped her hand away from Ida’s and shot to her feet. Dizzy for a moment, she wavered, then steadied herself. Ida remained seated, eyes cast down.

‘Well?’ Carlisle asked.

‘I left my notebook in the car,’ Flanagan said.

She made for the hall, passed Carlisle without looking at him, and went to the front door. Opening it, she saw Calvin leaning against the car, looking up from his phone, the light of the display reflected on his round and quizzical face.

‘Ma’am?’ he said as she marched towards him.

‘Go in and wait with them,’ she said.

‘Ma’am, is there—’

‘Just fucking do it.’

He said no more and walked back to the house where Graham Carlisle stood in the doorway, watching her.

Tears flooded Flanagan’s eyes, streamed down her cheeks, choked in her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth, ashamed, blind as a newborn. Her free hand searched for the passenger door handle, found it, pulled the door open. She lowered herself in and pulled it closed, sealing herself in the bubble of metal and glass.

‘Stupid,’ she said. ‘Fucking stupid.’

She wept until her ribs ached, grieving for her own life, mourning her children’s futures, feeling them lost to her.

‘I won’t die,’ she said. ‘Not from this.’

That’s not true, she thought. I will die. I will die in pain and humiliation on a hospital ward with tubes and machines wired to me.

‘No, I won’t,’ she said. ‘Stop it. Just bloody stop it.’

Flanagan slapped herself across the cheek. Not hard, but enough for the sting to cut through the clamour in her head.

‘Stop it right now.’

Another slap, sting upon sting, the heat lingering there.

I have to be stronger than this, she thought. Not for me. For Eli and Ruth and Alistair. I have to cope. If I can’t, how will they?

And for Rea Carlisle.

A poor woman who had been blotted out of existence a day ago. Flanagan had to cope so that she could fight for Rea and take whatever justice could be had for her.

There. Calm.

She sat back in the passenger seat. Breathed deep and slow. Smoothed her emotions out. Let time slip past unnoticed.

Until the car’s interior glowed white from headlights behind. She looked into the rear-view mirror, saw the lights die and a suited man climb out of a Jaguar.

David Rainey. He was not a barrister, but she had seen him lurking in courtrooms during various criminal trials, handing notes to whoever had been retained to fight for his client. Slippery as a fish, he was. She watched him lock the car and walk to the house. He did not notice her attention. Once he’d gone inside, she followed.

Graham Carlisle answered the door once again, a scowl on his face. He didn’t speak as he stepped aside to let her enter.

Rainey waited in the reception room, on the seat opposite Ida. Calvin stood against the wall, a vision of discomfort.

‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘Shall we begin?’

Graham Carlisle clammed up, gave her nothing. He’d been swimming the previous evening, he said, had arrived home late and gone straight to bed. Ida had been here alone, watching television. She had been worried that she’d not been able to reach her daughter, but her husband had reassured her she would be fine. She followed him to bed, but had been unable to sleep. She had left the house in the early hours and gone to look for Rea.

All of it perfectly reasonable. Flanagan had no cause to doubt the word of either parent. Except for the fear on Carlisle’s face, and the hatred on Ida’s. They sat beside each other on the couch, but might as well have been on different continents.

The solicitor contributed nothing other than to place a voice recorder on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

In her pocket, Flanagan had a photocopy of the picture Lennon had shown her that afternoon. She could produce it now, put Carlisle on the back foot, see if it would shake anything loose. But he was already antagonistic, and any hostility from her would only make him more defensive. And the solicitor would end the conversation immediately. Save it for another time, she thought.

‘Do you know a police officer called Jack Lennon?’ she asked.

‘No, we don’t,’ Carlisle said.

A crease appeared on Ida’s brow.

Flanagan spoke to her. ‘Mrs Carlisle?’

Carlisle said, ‘I told you, we don’t know him.’

‘Mrs Carlisle?’

Carlisle got to his feet. ‘I think I made myself clear, we don’t know any—’

‘I remember him,’ Ida said.

Carlisle opened and closed his mouth, then sat down.

‘Him and Rea were an item. It was for about six months, I think. Maybe five or six years ago. I only met him the once. It was in the upper floor of Castle Court. I was out shopping and I saw them at a table, having a coffee. I went over to say hello. He looked embarrassed. He didn’t say much. Rea never really talked about him until they split up. He treated her very badly.’

‘In what way?’ Flanagan asked. ‘Was he violent?’

Ida shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that. He was just careless with her feelings. You know how some men are.’

Flanagan gave her a soft smile to say, yes, I know.

‘Have you seen or heard from him since that time?’

‘No. Rea never mentioned him since.’

‘What has this police officer got to do with my daughter’s killing?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Maybe nothing,’ Flanagan said. ‘But I know he was in touch with Rea in the last few days.’

‘So he’s a suspect,’ Carlisle said.

Flanagan neither admitted nor denied his assertion. Instead, she asked, ‘Were you aware of a book that Rea found in her uncle’s house?’

Carlisle paled. Ida looked back to the floor.

‘A large scrapbook or a photo album. Possibly a ledger.’

Ida inhaled, her mouth opened. Carlisle put his hand on hers. Squeezed. Ida closed her mouth.

‘Mrs Carlisle?’

‘We don’t know anything about a book,’ Carlisle said.

Flanagan kept her gaze hard on Ida. ‘Mrs Carlisle?’

A pause, then Ida shook her head.

‘Mr Carlisle, did Rea leave a message on your voicemail yesterday afternoon?’

Carlisle stared for a moment, something working behind his eyes. A lie forming. ‘Yes. Morning or afternoon, I can’t remember. Something about a locksmith. I deleted it. You can check my phone if you want.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Flanagan said, ‘for now, at least. All right. I think that’s enough for this evening. DS Calvin will call by tomorrow morning to take statements from both of you, if that’s convenient?’

Carlisle looked to his solicitor. Rainey nodded.

‘All right,’ Carlisle said. ‘No earlier than nine-thirty, no later than ten.’

‘Of course,’ Flanagan said as she stood to leave.

‘They’re lying,’ Calvin said as the street lights wafted past the car. He kept his attention on the road. Calvin seldom spoke unless he had something useful to say. That was why Flanagan kept him around.

He was a good policeman, but would never rise much higher in rank. Loyal, a hard worker. The kind of cop you wanted on your team to catch your fall. To do the legwork. Flanagan had met his wife, had gone to their baby’s christening at a Church of Ireland service. She doubted he had a religious bone in his body, but she guessed they’d had the infant committed to the church to keep the grandparents happy. Some traditions are hard to break, whether you believe in them or not.

‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘He lied about the message. And they know something about a book, which means Lennon was telling the truth about that, at least.’

‘Do you still fancy him for it?’ Calvin asked.

Flanagan remained silent for a time, then said, ‘Take me to the house.’

IDA CARLISLE LISTENED
from the kitchen as her husband and his solicitor prepared a statement to be issued to the press overnight. The newspapers had known Rea’s identity since early this morning, but had kept it quiet for the time being. They would lead with it tomorrow morning, and Graham ensured he had a few words ready for them. What a loss this tragedy was to Rea’s immediate and wider family, and asking for privacy at this difficult time.

This difficult bloody time.

What a ridiculous phrase, Ida thought. She had been through many difficult times in her life, as had most people. But not this.

She supposed she should be angry, but she simply didn’t have the emotion to spare. All feeling had been drained from her over the past twenty-four hours, leaving her an empty vessel of bone and skin.

As the police officers had got up to leave, Ida had one question she desperately wanted to ask. Graham gripped her arm the moment she opened her mouth, and she closed it again.

When can we have her body?

It was a simple question, now unanswered.

The young policeman had given a sad smile and mumbled that he was sorry for her loss. The woman officer had said nothing as she left. Ida could see the burden she carried, weighing on her shoulders. Something terrible had happened to that woman, just like Ida. She knew in her gut that they shared something painful, but she couldn’t tell what. If she’d been allowed, if she’d had the nerve, she would have embraced the woman officer, let the pain pass between them so they could know each other.

A foolish idea.

‘I’m so sorry for your troubles,’ David Rainey said from the kitchen doorway, startling Ida.

She said thank you, but the words barely escaped her throat. He went to the hall and conferred with her husband in whispers before exiting through the front door.

BBC, UTV, RTE,
Belfast Telegraph
, the
Irish News
, the
News Letter
– every outlet imaginable. They had it covered. Announcing to the world the family wanted privacy in this difficult time.

This difficult fucking time.

‘What?’ Graham asked from the kitchen doorway.

Ida’s hand went to her mouth. Had she spoken the words aloud?

‘Nothing,’ she said.

Graham went to the cupboard below the sink, reached behind the bleach and washing-up liquid, and retrieved the bottle of whiskey. He rinsed a glass under the tap and poured a generous helping. Ida could smell the drink from her seat. He removed his spectacles, tossed them on the table, sat down opposite her and took a mouthful.

She watched him for a time before saying, ‘You told that policewoman you went swimming yesterday evening.’

Graham did not look up from his glass. ‘That’s right.’

‘You told me you were at a party meeting.’

Now he looked up. ‘I misremembered,’ he said.

‘No you didn’t. You lied.’

He tilted his head. His eyes looked bluer than they had in years. ‘Watch what you’re saying, Ida.’

‘Why did you lie?’

He spoke slowly and clearly, as if she were a backward child. ‘Like I said, I misremembered. I was confused. I told you I’d been at a meeting. But when I thought about it, I remembered I’d been to the pool.’

‘You didn’t smell of chlorine when you got home last night. You always smell of chlorine when you come home from swimming. I can’t stick it when you come to bed, that smell. Makes me feel like I’m sleeping in a toilet stall.’

Graham set his glass on the tabletop. He reached across and took her hands in his. His fingers felt dry like kindling. She saw the tiny red cracks in his skin. She saw that he had been biting his nails.

‘Listen to me very, very carefully,’ he said. ‘Are you listening, Ida?’

She looked up from his hands. Saw those same red lines in the whites of his eyes.

He said, ‘Don’t ever question me again. Not in front of other people. Not when we’re alone. Don’t ask me where I’ve been or what I’ve done. Do you understand me?’

She swallowed before she spoke, felt heat in her eyes. ‘Graham, what did you do?’

His hand, hard and flat, slammed into the side of her head. She gripped the table to keep from tumbling to the floor. A storm thundered in her ear.

Graham stood and said, ‘Don’t question me. I won’t tell you again.’

She didn’t notice him leave and close the door. The heat of the blow swelled in her cheek. She closed her eyes and savoured it.